I do not own Mount Massive Asylum, Doctor Trager, or Chris Walker. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon Poleski. Enjoy!
Trager sat in the padded chair, a half-dwindled cigarette poking out from between his lips. He had removed his surgical mask, which was sitting on the desk in front of him. His legs were propped up on top of the desk, and he was leaning back in a padded office chair. In his boney, wrinkled hands was the recently severed head of Guard Sanderson. After having dealt with the pesky guard, Trager took to rummaging through the drawers of the desk and had found a pack of Camel cigarettes, along with a lighter.
Thank God someone had decided to ignore the company policy of not smoking indoors.
The mad doctor handled the guard's head as one would a basketball, rotating it around in his hands and occasionally tossing it up and down playfully. Killing the guard had subdued his anger and frustration towards his assistant, but the reprieve was short-lived. Way too short-lived.
He exhaled some smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Prior to his life at the asylum, Trager had hardly dabbled in the bad habit of smoking, but right now he was stressed beyond measure. So of course, the doctor was pleasantly surprised by his find and was now on his second cigarette. Screw lung cancer. Considering everything his body had undergone recently, he was sure contracting the horrible disease would do little to his already more-dead-than-alive husk.
He was broken out of his idle stupor by the door to the office buckling inward with a loud bang, making him jump in his chair and nearly dropping the head he was holding. He steadied himself just as the door buckled again and finally gave way, and a massive blood-covered monster barged into the room.
The skin around its nose and lips was torn away, causing its teeth to appear permanently bared. The massive thing was shirtless, and blood stained its large chest and round belly. Chains were wrapped around thick muscular legs at the ankles. But the most unsettling feature was its eyes. They were a penetrating milky white, as if blind. From where Trager was seated, the eyes seemed to possess an almost ethereal quality.
This monstrosity was known as Chris Walker: the asylum's watchdog.
Trager's curious expression turned to one of irritated boredom as soon as he recognized the massive man. "Oh. It's just you," he sighed, returning his gaze to the severed head in his lap and removing the cigarette from his mouth. "You know, that door wasn't even locked. You really should try the handle first. That's what it's there for."
"Trager," snarled Walker, standing up from his hunched position atop the broken door to face the obnoxiously relaxed-looking man, who currently had his grotesque feet propped up on an office desk. "What're you doin' in administrations?"
Trager looked up from the severed head in his hands and replied with mock innocence, "What? Am I not allowed free roam of my own asylum?"
Walker grunted and stretched the remaining skin on his face into a lipless, taunting smile—if it could even be called that. "If anything, it's Martin's asylum now."
"Don't you even mention that lunatic's name to me. And this is not his asylum! If anything it should be mine! In case you haven't heard, due to recent events, I've been promoted to head doctor. AND I'm the only person in here who's actually qualified to run this hell-hole," Trager snapped. He looked down to the terrified face of the guard and absentmindedly placed his cigarette between its parted lips.
"Well, besides Langen," he added. "But currently he's rather . . . unfit . . . to run this place." The doctor trailed off, seemingly lost in his own dark thoughts. After a moment, his head snapped up to Walker, who had his pale eyes trained on him and was breathing heavily, as usual.
"Why are you still here? Don't you have some, I dunno, heads to rip off . . . or people to 'contain'? Or whatever the hell you do with your free time," Trager said condescendingly.
Walker took a step closer, teeth bared, and growled at the arrogant doctor.
"Calm down there, buddy. Just trying to make conversation," Trager sighed, rolling his eyes. Walker huffed in response.
"I'm looking fer someone."
"Yeah? Well join the fucking club," Trager murmured, leaning back in his seat. Once again, the doctor's mind went back to his assistant. Several dark images zipped through his head before he cut them off with an intake and exhale of breath. His eyes flashed back to Walker.
"So, who are you after?" he asked.
"Some guard. Followed his scent to this room." Walker looked pointedly at Trager, as if knowing something was amiss. Taking note of the giant's suspicious glare, the man in the chair chuckled. Unbeknownst to Walker, the doctor was now gripping the severed head in his lap by its hair.
"Hmm. This guard you're looking for . . ." the doctor began slyly. "He wouldn't happen to look like this," Trager removed his feet from the desk and, quick as lightning, slammed the guard's head down on the wooden surface, causing the cigarette to fall from its lips, ". . . would he?"
Trager let loose a wave of raucous laughter as Walker stared at the severed head. The big man looked up to the cackling doctor, then back to the head, then again back to the doctor. With a predatory snarl, he strode over to the desk with speed uncharacteristic for someone of his great build.
Trager hardly had any time to react as his chuckling was cut off by a massive hand over his windpipe. A dry wheeze ripped from his mouth as he was pulled roughly over the top of the desk and held up to Walker's gnarled face.
For a moment, the massive man stood there grinding his teeth and growling as he held the gasping doctor in his meaty right hand. Trager gripped at his chained forearm, but otherwise did not give off the impression of a man who was being choked to death. He looked strangely composed. Accepting.
"Ha," he wheezed. "Do it. I fucking dare you," Trager was gritting his teeth, the corners of his scarred mouth turned upwards in a rueful smile.
The sight infuriated Walker, and the big man was just about to snap the smaller man's neck—to end the pitiful man's life—when something in his dulled mind clicked. Still snarling, he parted his clenched teeth and spoke.
"No. Whether you realize it or not, you're helping." He raised his head, and his ethereal eyes darted around as if seeing something beyond the ceiling and walls. Still looking around, the large man continued. "It's spreading. Can you feel it?"
Trager was silent in the man's iron grasp. His smug grin deteriorated and his eyes narrowed at the big man, but he said nothing in response. Walker's eyes settled back on him, and he took the defiant silence as confirmation.
"I won't kill you, as much as I would like to. You're doing me a favor by cleaning up this mess. It needs to be contained. No other way . . ." Walker trailed off. From Trager's precarious position, he could see the far-off look in the big man's eyes when he spoke those last words.
Without warning, the hold on his neck loosened and he fell back onto the desk, knocking the guard's head to the floor. His hand immediately went to his throat and he began sucking in breaths of air.
"Fuck . . . you," Trager rasped weakly as Walker moved to leave. He was at the doorway in several steps, and turned back to the fuming doctor. He had just recalled something that Trager had mentioned earlier in their "conversation."
"I saw your pet."
The doctor stifled his ragged breaths and looked to the big man. He removed his hand from his throat. "Where?" he spat.
Walker studied Trager for a moment. The doctor was glaring at him; he could tell he was very pissed. A low chuckle emanated from deep within his chest, clawing its way out of his ripped mouth.
"Walker . . ." Trager said, warning lacing his words. "Where the fuck is he?!" Trager demanded loudly. The big man's laughter had struck a nerve in him. He hated that this man was mocking him. Him! And he knew where his assistant was, and he was laughing about it.
Walker silenced his amused chuckles and sneered.
". . . With Father Martin."
Simon entered through two sets of double-doors, which opened up to a narrow, high-ceilinged room with stained-glass windows. As he gazed upon the room, Simon was sure that next to the word 'ominous' in the dictionary, there would be a picture of this very room. Pale light streamed through the cracks in the stained-glass, traveling down in diagonal beams over rows of pews. The pews were positioned against the walls, leaving an aisle between them. Like the hallway, the room was lit by many candles. In the back, Simon saw a large wooden cross attached the far wall, behind a podium. In the middle of the room, four pews were arranged in a misshapen square. Each pew was full of men, some of which, Simon noticed, appeared to be stark naked.
What was with all the unabashed nudity in this place? Was this a new fad or something? Simon wondered in disgust.
The masked man who had led Simon here motioned for him to follow as the former walked towards the group of men. Simon looked back to the doors, considering just running for it. His plan was dashed when he realized he didn't really have anywhere else to go. And on top of that, his escort had locked the stairway door behind him. Simon really had no choice but to join the group of men, all of whom he had no idea if they would greet him or eat him.
Simon's escort had slipped between a gap in the pews and took a seat in a space between two men. "Newcomer," Simon heard him say, addressing the whole group. Most of the seated men turned and acknowledged Simon with curious and mistrusting eyes—or just one eye, in a couple cases.
Simon gulped.
"Who're you?" said a shirtless man, sitting in the middle of the pew on Simon's right. Simon was close enough to take in the features of the men in the square. Most of them, from what he could tell, wore masks similar to the one his guide was wearing.
Realization hit Simon like a ton of bricks when he found that he could not find the tell-tale seam of a mask on one of the shirtless men. He looked over to another undressed man, then another, and then another. He failed to find any seams.
Oh God, he thought with horror. Those are their faces!
Simon began to feel queasy. He did not want to be anywhere near these people, or this place. Screw it. He'd find some way out, even if he had to throw himself through the reinforced glass door in the hall. Hell, he still had a few sturdy bones left in him; what was a few broken more? He took a step back, about to make a hasty retreat.
"What are you, mute? I asked you a questin'," repeated the shirtless man. Simon froze mid-step.
"M-My name is Simon." His words were out of his mouth before he could even think of what he was saying.
The shirtless man grunted and looked in the direction of the pew opposite of him, apparently losing interest in the newcomer. Simon still stood there, his mind a complete blank.
"You just going to stand there gawking or are you gonna sit down?" said another man in the group. The voice nearly sent Simon into a bout of hysteria, but somehow he managed to remain outwardly calm. Once again, much to Simon's annoyance, his body seemed to act on its own; his feet shuffled forward and he moved between the pews and took a seat in the biggest empty space he could find. This put him between a bald man with a crooked nose, and a shivering man that was huddled up at the end of the pew. Simon stared at the convulsing man, in some kind of daze, when a voice to his right spoke up.
"Don't mind 'im. All he does is shake. He doesn't like people starin' at 'im, though. Makes him go all nutso."
Simon looked over to see that the crooked-nosed man had addressed him.
"Oh. Alright then," he replied dumbly.
The man next to him sneered. "You're new here, ain'tcha," he stated.
Simon's tired eyes looked the man over and he gave a small nod, slightly unnerved by the casual small talk this man seemed to be having with him. But, he was thankful that this man did not look as disconcerting as his peers.
"Yes. I've . . . actually never been to the chapel before," Simon said, glancing around the large room. "Honestly, I didn't even know there was one here."
The man next to him closed his eyes and shook his head. "No, no. That's not what I meant," he said. "You're new here."
Simon raised an eyebrow at the man, who in turn rolled his eyes.
"You know . . . to the asylum. How long have ya been a patient?" he asked.
"Oh. Um," Simon thought, mentally counting the days since he was admitted to Mount Massive. "It's been about two weeks, maybe three. How could you tell?"
Simon winced slightly when he felt movement from his left side. He jerked away from the touch and turned to see the trembling man, still curled up and still shivering.
"Well for starters, what you just did," scoffed the other man.
"What do you mean?" questioned Simon, turning back to him.
"You flinched. You're a flincher. An' you don't seem like one of those crazy types who do that on the daily, like 'im," he explained, nodding to the curled up man next to Simon.
"Don't . . . Don't look at me," came a small plea from Simon's left. Apparently the shivering man had seen the other acknowledging him.
"Sorry, man. Won't happen again," said the crooked-nosed man, returning his gaze to Simon. "And the other thing I noticed is you're pretty clean."
"Clean?" Simon was confused by the man's statement. He was sure it had been at least several days since he had bathed. His head began to throb, and he started feeling like he was rocking back and forth on the pew. All this talk was starting to get to him; every time he said something, the other man always responded with something that confused the hell out of him.
"Jeez-Louise," muttered the man offhandedly. "Clean. Not like them." He motioned towards the men in the other pews across from them. The men who Simon thought had been wearing masks.
"Oh. What . . . What happened to them?" Simon asked timidly.
The crooked-nosed man held Simon's gaze for a moment, and then brought his head down to stare at the floor. Simon looked away from the man and back to the patients, chatting idly to themselves.
When he had first seen them, he was reminded of some of Trager's patients, and wondered if they had had a run-in with the mad doctor and somehow managed to escape. That alone seemed unlikely to believe, but what he was seeing now looked very unnatural. The deformities of these men did not even seem to be man-made. Skin had been morphed into a synthetic-like material, or in some cases, Simon noted, the skin had been completely ripped away. Body parts were swollen; bad enough that the skin was breaking and giving way to blood and puss. Noses were either missing or rotting away on their rubber-like faces.
Simon thought he was going to throw up right on the spot when he examined an unclothed man in the pew adjacent to the one he was in. The man was covered head to toe with stitches. Marks, similar to chemical burns, ravaged his flesh, along with contusions.
What in the hell was going on in this place . . .
Remember the man you meet after escaping from the room where Trager cut off Miles' fingers? Earlier on in this story, I called him by a different name, but I recently found out his real name is Mr. Langen. If you go on YouTube and type in "Outlast - All Dr. Trager Dialogue" you can hear some audio recordings that were not used in the game, and he specifically addresses a man named Mr. Langen. Seriously, go check it out, it's pretty cool—if not slightly disturbing!
Also, feedback is appreciated. While providing motivation for this story, it also gives me ideas and better lets me give readers what they want. Thanks for sticking with this story, guys!